


if it seems like I've been lost

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day, Alternate Universe - Time Loop, Gen, I mean basically all of the italia 90 squad, World Cup, england nt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 06:51:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: He wakes up.The phone is ringing.





	if it seems like I've been lost

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone for sitting through my sudden deep well of Gary Lineker and vintage England love.  
> HEAVY ENGLAND FEELINGS, blasts world in motion on repeat (yes, I know all of the rap by heart)

 

 

 

It can't finish like this, Gary thinks, long after it has.

 

 

 

 

After every loss there is a disintegration. There is the coming down, the realisation that whatever you were reaching for is no longer there. The desolation of your fans and the celebration of the others. The sudden, swift disappearance of purpose, reason, as if it was only ever fleeting in the first place; whatever it was, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore.

Gary gets off the ground and looks out over at the pitch, where the ones who still have something to play for are falling to the ground in a riot of green-black-red-yellow. Football is a simple game. Twenty-two men chase a ball for ninety minutes and at the end the Germans always win.

Stuart's distraught. Stuart who never broke down, ever. Gazza, red-nosed and crying, is bringing up the hem of his shirt to his face in some kind of salute or despair. Bobby stands at the dugout in his pale suit, hands in pockets, biting his lip, looking down. Matthäus tugs Chris back and gives him a hug in consolation: anyone could have missed the penalty. There is no hand of god here, only respect, but somehow it feels even more hollow than four years ago.

The quiet is the worst, he thinks, shirt in one hand, staring blankly at the goalpost. There is so much noise and yet he can't hear anything. The fans are watching this, and none of them will have said a word to each other since. In a loss everyone's tragedy is their own.

He tries to focus on breathing instead; in, out, in, out. Doesn't help. He closes his eyes, opens them. Still the end of the world.

 _All English fans are kindly requested to remain in your seats for fifteen minutes,_ blares the tannoy cautiously. They're still packed up there with their scarves and their flags, and Gary feels a sudden rush of affection for them, how pure it all is; oh, hell, they're just people, after all, singing and crying their hearts out over nothing but a game.

Only a game. A cruel, cruel game.

He's a senior member of the squad and there are motions to go through that he obliges. Shakes some hands, takes the offered pity with a tight smile and a lump in his throat. Down the tunnel to the dressing room. There's no dancing in the bath tonight, or anything of the sort. Shakes more hands. Big Terry Butcher comes by and tilts his head to the side, looking like he wants to say something even though he can't.

Change, mechanically, then to the media pit. Microphone after microphone thrust into his face, bright lights of the cameras – _whatdidyouthinkofthegame_ – _shouldEnglandhavegonethrough – areyouhappywiththeresult_. He can't remember what he says, though he must have said something. Yes. No. Yes. Proud of the lads. When we landed all of you wrote us off, and look now. First semi-final in twenty-four years. That's got to count for something.

But it doesn't, in the end, does it. He backs away from _willyouplayatthenextworldcup_ , his voice gone, barely able to look at anyone. Why are they asking about the next when this was theirs for the taking. Why are they asking him, twenty-nine years old and no Roger Milla. Why should anything depend on one person, one match.

 _– Whydidn'tyouscoreanothergoal_ –

The buses are waiting for them on the other side of the interview scrum. The whole place is this grey, cavernous-looking basement, as miserable as the men who get on. "All right," Gary says as Chris walks over to the steps with him, not so much comfort as just needing to say something. Chris looks at him.

"I hope they've got fucking ice cream at the hotel," he says.

They get on. The players are huddled towards the end of the bus, the staff in front. Paul looks up from his seat and manages something of a grin. "Decent goal, Gary. Nicer assist, but still." Gary pats him on the shoulder and takes the seat behind, looks out the window over at the German bus next to them. They're loud enough to be heard from inside here. Their hands are in the air.

When they're all on, just before they leave the basement, Bobby stands up. "I'm very, very proud of you, lads," is all he says.

Gazza, more emotion than man, has stopped crying. Like he's forgotten reality, or something; he pumps a fist and starts singing, _let's all have a disco, let's all have a disco_ , like they're down at the pub and all's well that ends well after a beer or ten. Gary looks around. In the dim cheap light of the bus Gazza looks almost manic, all of them do, five or six catching up to the song and doing a funny little choreography.

He turns back, smiles a little. Nothing to stop you from having fun, not even the world's ending.

What an ending it'd been.

 

 

 

 

It's another sunny day, the next day – is it ever not sunny in Italy, really – the phone's ringing off its hook and Gary reaches over to pick it up. Every part of him is aching and he creaks as he stretches, manoeuvring himself to the edge like an old man.

"Hello," he says, glancing over at the bed next to him. Peter in the bed over is yawning. Gary's pretty sure he was stone-cold unconscious in a fountain last night.

" _This is your 6am wake-up call,"_ says the voice on the other end, and he blinks. The flight's not till the afternoon.

There's a noise that sounds like Chewbacca having a toothache from the other side.

"Shilts – " Gary hangs up, leans over and gives Peter a nudge. "Did you arrange the wake-up call? It's only useful before the game, y'know."

Peter cracks one eye open and then the other. "Wot," he mumbles groggily.

"The wake-up call. It's six in the bloody morning. I ought to be sleeping, you ought to be shot."

"Don't shoot me." Peter pushes the covers off of himself and stumbles to the bathroom. "You'll need me for tonight and all that."

"Gazza doesn't need your help to clean out two entire pubs, to be fair."

"No, I mean _tonight_ tonight. Y'know."

"What's happening tonight?"

Peter sticks his head out past the doorframe and stares at Gary, toothbrush in his hand, jaw slack. There's toothpaste dribbling from his open mouth. It's disgusting.

"You all right, Gary?"

"No," Gary says irritably. "We're not in the final, I can barely move my arm without pulling five muscles, and if no one was sober enough to fish Bobby out of the pool last night then we're all going to jail."

Peter walks over and hits Gary very firmly on the side of the head. Gary yelps.

"What the fuck, Shilts?"

"Don't be such a pessimist, you daft bastard. We've not even played the game yet."

 

 

 

 

He's a practical person, is Gary. He isn't fancy, or amusing, or a lad's lad everyone loves to party with. There's things he'll do, like have a nice wine at home, and things he won't, like climb on a table and dance. He doesn't expect things like second chances and miracles. He knows that he's quick and is surprisingly better at scoring goals than he would've thought, but he's not the best player, and England aren't the best team. They're lucky to be here at all.

Nothing happens to him. To them. So this, whatever this is - a second chance, a miracle - this is a fair bit different from his day.

At first he thinks it must be a dream. Not yesterday; yesterday _happened_ , and he knows this, the pain still sunk into his stomach. Maybe he's fallen asleep on the plane back to Sardinia. That's the only explanation he can come up with for it, sitting in exactly the same position at breakfast eating exactly the same thing, the same conversations being had over the coffee.

"John," he says, brushing his way towards the only other sensible person on the team. John's standing exactly where he stood yesterday morning. "What day is it?"

"Fourth of July," John says, blinking. "Isn't it?"

Independence bloody Day. Why couldn't they relive 1776 instead - certainly the Americans would've been happier with that.

"You're not all playing a massive joke on me, are you?" Gary narrows his eyes. "Is this Bobby getting back at me for the team talk?"

"We haven't had the team talk yet, Gary," John explains in that infinitely patient way of his, a parent talking through how the world goes round. "That's after lunch. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah - " Gary shakes his head. "Yeah, I guess. It's just I've done this before."

"What d'you mean?"

"This," Gary says slowly, waving a hand around. "All of it happened yesterday. We played the semis. I scored a goal."

"Did we win?"

"What?"

Gary'd been expecting _you're mad_ or _maybe you'd just imagined that_ , but John's looking at him like he genuinely wants to know. "Did we win?" he repeats himself, earnest. Expectant.

"We won," Gary says, sucking in a breath.

 

 

 

 

They don't win.

It plays out exactly the same way, right down to the deflection off Paul, Gazza's volley too close to Illgner. Gary scores his goal. It's slightly different from what he remembers, but no one will call him out on that. He celebrates like he doesn't know what's going to happen.

The problem is that he doesn't know the game enough; things happen as he remembers them, but he only realises after they're over. There's no chance to save Gazza's booking, it happens so fast. Beardsley fluffs his free kick and Trevor hits it before Gary can say anything. He tells Peter to go (right?) on the first one, tells Chris to keep it lower, but Stuart's still goes into the keeper's legs, and it just takes another miss from Des to end up the same way.

Somehow it's worse. A second gut-punch. _All English fans are kindly requested to remain in your seats for fifteen minutes,_ blares the tannoy cautiously. Matthäus and Chris. The interview questions. "I'm very, very proud of you, lads," is all Bobby says, standing at the front of the bus.

Gary looks over when they start in on You'll Never Walk Alone, his stomach sinking lower than it ever was. John raises an eyebrow at him as he catches his gaze, comes over and slips into the seat next to him.

"Sing it," he grins. Gary doesn't think he's ever seen him not smiling. "I want to take a video and send that to Everton."

"Funny. Do you do kids' birthday parties as well as the Apollo?"

"Guess your dream was wrong, huh?"

"Lied about that, actually." Gary bites his lip. "We went out on pens."

John doesn't say anything after that. Doesn't talk till they're back at the hotel, and then slips into his blokeish fun again, disappearing into the crowd that chucks Bobby into the swimming pool, climbing onto the table to do his _World In Motion_ rap. All of this is the same.

Gary watches from the side and leans back against one of the pool chairs, closes his eyes.

When he wakes up, he's in bed and the phone is ringing.

 

 

 

 

So. Not a one-off. Not deja vu. Something that's happening to him, and only him, for no reason at all. He finds John at breakfast and John doesn't remember a single thing he'd told him yesterday.

Not a second-chance. Not a miracle. Something he has to fix.

 

 

 

 

The third night, he tells Paul: get the fuck out of the wall. Don't come out to block it.

Paul stares at him, but he does as he's told, and the Germans don't score from that. Gary breathes a sigh of relief. All to play for, he thinks, punching towards the ground with his fist. They're still in this. He just has to score, and they'll win.

Just has to score. Just like he's already done twice.

Paul floats the ball towards him, and he catches it on the tip of his boot, bounces it towards his left. Left - right - left - the directions of the penalties he's been trying to remember. It's a split second - he looks towards the goal - Kohler shoulders him off the ball, and it runs out of play.

Ten minutes left. Five minutes. Two.

It goes to penalties at nil-nil. The Germans hit them all in different directions; the result ends up the same.

 

 

 

 

 _Whatdidyouthinkofthegame_ – _shouldEnglandhavegonethrough – areyouhappywiththeresult - willyouplayatthenextworldcup_ \- _whydidn'tyouscoreagoal -_

 

 

 

 

People always make out how lonely the goalkeeper is on the pitch. Ten men up there and nothing you can do about it; even the colour of your kit marks you out as distinct, the one person shackled to a position you can't leave, all the way on the other side as your team celebrates without you. The goalkeeper and his goalpost and nothing else.

As it turns out, the other end of the pitch gets equally lonely. The only way to win a football game is to score a goal. So: score and you live until the next game, don't score and a statistic is saddled on you like a carcass. Words like _drought_ that you never heard with anyone else, because there was an expectation not just to _play_ but to _do_.

Results. Proof. The Scapegoat. The Messiah. Score us a goal, Golden Boot.

The striker spends all of his life trying to replicate something he isn't even sure he did in the first place. Sometimes 1986 sounds to Gary like a fever dream; top scorer in the world, he's only a greengrocer's son from Leicester. But the epithet sticks. And every time he pulls them out of the fire - Ireland, Cameroon - the weight grows.

He's told himself all his career that he feeds off it. Other people get nervous; he just anticipates. The adrenaline rush. The ball connecting with your boot. The jubilation. The knowledge that you dragged your team back into it. All of it is the reason he plays, an addiction he can't wean himself off.

But this isn't all of his career. This is one fleeting burst, one moment, one goal in the eightieth minute that he spends two more nights trying to recreate and failing. The goalkeeper and his goalpost and nothing else. The striker and his goalpost and nothing else.

He looks around, and everyone is wrapped up in their own world, everyone programmed to do exactly what they'd done for a week now. None of them are going to burst out of their mold and score for him. None of them even know what the fuck's going on.

The clock ticks to eighty, and Augenthaler takes it away from him as he slips on the grass.

"Come on, Gary," David says to him as he jogs up for the corner, completely oblivious as to what was supposed to have happened, what is going to happen. "We can do this."

It's a badly-taken corner and goes all the way over their heads. Gary stands alone in front of the goal, shakes his head, thinks: I've never been so miserable in my entire fucking life.

The weight grows.

Score the goal.

Score the goal.

Score the goal.

 

 

 

 

Kohler and Augenthaler and Berthold against him - the ball bounces once, comes off Kohler's back - he picks it up, twists, hooks the ball up with his right foot, rifles the ball into the back of the net with his left.

 

 

 

 

"Peter," Gary says, low and urgent, before the shootout. "Peter, listen carefully to me, and don't ask any questions. The penalties are going to go right, right-and-high, left, left."

"I thought I was going to wait," Peter says, scrunching his face up. "We agreed - "

"No time, mate. All right?"

Peter goes the right way, every time. Stuart doesn't even need to take his penalty. Oh, Christ, Gary thinks, on his knees in the centre circle, everyone screaming around him, it's finally over, it's finally fucking over -

All of the questions he gets are about Argentina. He joins in the singing on the bus with the rest of them, as loud as he's ever been, louder. _LET'S ALL HAVE A DISCO. LET'S ALL HAVE A DISCO._ They throw Bobby into the pool and the lads are laughing, Gazza's dancing on a table, someone's smack-talking Maradona. John gets up and does his rap and all of them know the words by now. _THREE LIONS ON MY CHEST. I KNOW WE CAN'T GO WRONG._

Gary punches the sky, bellows the call-and-response, and he doesn't ever, ever want to wake up again.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up. The phone is ringing. He snatches it off his hook and launches it into the wall opposite, breaking through the cheap plaster with an almighty crash that shocks Peter right out of bed.

 

 

 

 

I don't know what else I can do, Gary says.

It's fine if we lose, Gary says.

I'll play the next World Cup, Gary says.

I'll retire from football, Gary says.

I don't want to play in the stupid final, Gary says.

 

 

 

 

He tells Paul to step out of the wall. The Germans don't score. He scores. He celebrates. Riedle and Klinsmann end up on the scoresheet instead, within minutes of each other in injury time, Peter fumbling one the way he wouldn't ordinarily do.

 

 

 

 

He tells Paul to step out of the wall. The Germans don't score. He scores. He celebrates. He wakes up again and there's the phone, Bobby's team talk, the bus, the pitch, _whatdidyouthinkofthegame_ –

 

 

 

 

Okay. So this, whatever it is, can't be fixed simply by changing what he knows will happen. Can't be fixed simply by telling people to do something. He isn't the manager - he isn't even the captain - and this is the best team England have had in years, they all _know_ how to do their bloody jobs.

Okay. So it's something _he_ has to do, on his own. It doesn't tell him what he has to do, but it's one step closer, and Gary feels like that's better than nothing. That's all that football is; steps forward.

 

 

 

 

Every day of a tournament Gary hits fifty penalties. Up, down, left, right, till he's dizzy. He counts them on his fingers in tens: One. Two. Three.

This feels like that. Doing it again and again, the rush of breath out of his chest, only this time he has to watch the others scuff theirs. He'd have liked to ask the lads to join him in practice, suggested the possibility of a shootout beforehand, but he can't move beyond this day. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Three weeks in and he's still here, still waking up, still sore every morning, limbs winched together like chains at the docks. Still listening to Chris telling him he hopes there's fucking ice cream.

"No, mate," he says once, too tired to pretend. "Trust me. I've eaten at the same restaurant for two weeks."

Chris stares at him the way everyone he's said this to has stared at him. "What are you, a prophet?" he yells across the restaurant when it turns out Gary's right.

"I'm the England man," Gary fires back, and they laugh, and Chris forgets that there's ice cream within the next twenty-four hours.

 

 

 

 

Once, he turns around and punches Klinsmann in the face.

There's a moment of stunned silence - he's Gary Lineker, he's never been bloody carded in his life - and then the stadium bursts into outrage, shouts of German he's pretty sure he's better off not understanding. He doesn't wait for the referee. Heels down the tunnel and storms all the way to the dressing room.

It's the first time in almost a month that he's been completely alone. No one trying to get him to dance, or yelling at him to pass the ball. Not even Peter snoring in the bed next to him.

It's the end of the world and he's the only one left.

He leans forward, laces his bruised fingers together, rests his arms on his knees. Breathes. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.

 

 

 

 

"Why'd you do it?" John asks.

Gary flicks his eyes up and meets his gaze. Sometimes he forgets - for every minute he plays John doesn't, the groin injury against Cameroon keeping him confined to blazer and tie. Everyone's tragedy is their own.

"Dunno," Gary says listlessly, shrugging and leaning back against the white wooden bench. The rest of the team haven't come in yet, so maybe they've managed to make it to extra time even without him. "Felt like it."

"Doesn't seem like something you'd do," John presses, sticking a hand against Gary's forehead. "Are you feeling all right? S'not the pressure, is it?"

Gary snorts. "When have I ever felt nervous?"

"It's the semi-finals." John's hand slides down from his forehead to hold his shoulder, reassuring and concerned all at once. "Not every day you do it, you know."

 _Not every day you'd throw away the chance_ is unsaid but implied. Gary pulls a grimace.

"I've told you twenty times, Barnesy, I do this every fucking day."

"What d'you mean?"

Even the dialogue is the same. Whoever's scripting this probably worked for Eastenders once. "I'm in a loop I can't get out of," Gary says, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling. "I can do anything today and it wouldn't matter. Tomorrow I'll still be clean as a whistle. Gentleman of football. Y'know."

He's probably told John the most number of times because John's never panicked about it, the way Peter or Chris have. The way Gazza did once, yelling until he ran into a tree and knocked himself out. "Uh-huh," John says dubiously, folding his arms across his chest. "So Klinsmann will just forget that this happened?"

"No, it's more that - this day won't ever have happened. For him or you or anyone except me. I'll be the only person to remember that once I was sent off for punching Jürgen bloody Klinsmann."

Christ, but it's hilarious when put that way. Gary starts to laugh. John looks like he might be short-circuiting.

"Maybe you need to see the doctor or something, Gary - "

"I can do anything," Gary says again, and leans in to kiss John just for the hell of it.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up in his own bed.

The phone is ringing.

Alone again. Naturally.

 

 

 

 

It isn't something he does twice. The looks he'd gotten from the team as they came in, exhausted after going 3-1 down in extra time, are enough convincing. No _whydidn'tyouscoreanothergoal_ but _doyouthinkyoulettheteamdown_. That bus ride Bobby was silent.

His legs are shot, his brain is shot. He sees John at breakfast the next day blank-faced and polite. All of it is doing his head in, lying, telling the truth, all of it. He needs to fix this himself, but there's no way.

He doesn't dream of anything when he sleeps now. Conks out and wakes up and does it again, drags himself out of bed on some days when he can't do anything else. There are openings here and there, but every time he seems to reach one, it's closed down or scuffed. Brehme appears out of nowhere. Gazza skies the pass. The next night it's David, Chris, Stuart. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

Do something.

Do something.

Do something.

 

 

 

 

There's one thing he's grateful for: the pain stays the same.

"Every time we lose it hurts equally bad," he'd tried to explain to Peter on one of the occasions where Peter felt more indulgent and less like laughing. "It's not something you get used to. Or expect."

"You never get used to losing," Peter said gravely. "The moment you expect to lose you shouldn't play football anymore."

That's all there is; football is a simple game, men chasing after a ball. Without the pain and the ache that hits his chest so hard he can't breathe there wouldn't be a point to any of this. Waking up. Trying again. He wouldn't feel the happiness bursting through his chest every time he scores his equaliser, wouldn't want to scream at the stars and walk on the clouds.

It happens every time, the years of hurt and hope, that one moment before he gets out of bed where he thinks _tonight we will win and it will end_. It's all that gets him through this.

 

 

 

 

_All English fans are requested to remain in your seats for fifteen minutes._

_Whatdidyouthinkofthegame_ – _shouldEnglandhavegonethrough – areyouhappywiththeresult -_

_Let's all have a disco, let's all have a disco._

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.

 

 

 

 

They win once or twice but it never lasts, and if expecting the loss isn't something that happens, expecting to wake up after the win is almost as bad. There isn't a point, you know, to all this, he wants to say. This won't last. The euphoria will be shattered as it has before, as it always will.

There's one night Gary doesn't join in the celebrations as much as he might have and John comes over to him, frowning.

"What's up?"

"Tired." Gary pulls a half-smile. "Not looking forward to the hangover tomorrow."

John scoffs. "You never get hangovers."

"Could do, rate we're going."

"What's really up?"

Gary pauses a beat. He's lost count of the number of times he's explained this and it comes out rehashed and tired. "Stuck in a loop. None of this is real. Gazza's going to suggest throwing Bobby into the pool in a bit. I've done this a million times and tomorrow I'll do it again."

"What d'you mean?"

"This doesn't last, John. We've not won yet. We'll never win. I keep playing the same game."

"Uh-huh," John says dubiously, folding his arms across his chest. God. Everything is the same.

"Let's throw Bobby into a pool," Gazza shouts in the background to a chorus of general agreement.

John looks slowly back at Gary, who laughs mirthlessly.

"Told you."

"So what?"

Gary blinks. They've had this exchange almost every day for a month, but this isn't part of the EastEnders script.

"So what?" John says again, undeterred by Gary's silence. "Look at them." He waves his hand at and Gary follows his arm, looks out towards the lawn; Gazza joining Bobby in the water, Terry's screaming at a shrub, Stuart is just sat on the ground laughing and laughing.

Some of them are doing the song without John. Hands in the air, like they're sixteen years old and their parents have let them go to an away game for the first time, and everything is a rush of more than you could ever really make sense of, the gleam in the eyes, manic.

_We're playing for England._

_IN-GER-LAND!_

"It doesn't matter." John's watching them and John is _John_ , Gary knows, always happy anyway, but there's something more in his face tonight. "These no-hopers. No one ever thought we'd get this far."

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore. Gary feels it in his chest, too.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up. They play. They lose.

Everything about this rings awfully clear. Every touch, every bobble of grass - it's the same as the first night he played this. Gazza getting in the way of Völler’s cross. Paul coming out to block and deflecting it into the goal. Matthäus's 25-yarder loosed just wide. Stuart's header almost going in.

Nothing's different. This is not a second chance, this is not a miracle. This isn't even something he has to fix.

When he scores his equaliser, when he feels the rush of blood through his head and the warmth of the players as they envelope him, when he hears his captain screaming into his ear, he doesn't look at any of them. He looks up. Football, someone clever had written once, was a nation's sport because it could bring nations together. Because when eleven people are playing for your country, they _are_ your country, they are you.

He looks up, and they're there. _All English fans are kindly requested -_ grown men crying, children so small they could barely see over the railings dancing, people sunk in their seats like they couldn't believe it. The English press contingent - who'd written them off a month ago, called Bobby a traitor, called them donkeys - on its feet, punching the air, shot through with the delirium of hope. _Yes. Come on._

Someone clever hadn't thought about the eleven people playing as the country. How when you're down there and you look up and you know what they're thinking and you can barely breathe, it's. Well. A simple game.

 

 

 

 

They board the bus through the interview scrum. Chris asks for his ice cream. "I'm very, very proud of you, lads," Bobby says, and for once Gary can detect the edge in his manager's voice, drained and shattered, this close.

 _Let's all have a disco_ , but tonight he joins in till his voice is hoarse, his fingers digging into the fabric of the seat in front of him. _Let's all have a disco._ A couple of people quirk their eyebrows at him but he doesn't care. Don't be sad, he thinks, no matter how maudlin it might be. It can't end like this. Not because of losing, but because of what comes next.

At the hotel, he doesn't join in the celebrations. Slinks off instead to the media van he knows hangs around outside hoping for some glimpse into the hotel, knocks on the door. It's opened by a startled cameraman who looks like he might shit - Gary winces - wet himself. "Can I come in?" he says.

"Uh - "

Gary knows he's charming enough to get away with almost everything, so he gives the man a smile and slides in past without needing an answer.

He's been in media vans before, trying his hand at punditry after the Argentina game four years ago. Screens, wires on the floor, a gorgeous mess; there's something strangely intoxicating about it. They're putting together a review of England's tournament. _Nessun Dorma_ in the background. Gary takes a brief look at the faces in the van, which seem almost - awed.

There are headlines and newspapers strewn everywhere:

_England Heroes_

_Sensational - So Proud_

_30 Million Watched Semi-final on TV_

_A night of raw emotion and proud heartbreak that will live with us all for ever_

_We Were Here_

Newscasters' heads appear on screen with overlapping commentary. "The most important game in English football for twenty-four years - rush hour came early as many struggled home to watch the big game - Newcastle city centre deserted - I've covered all sorts of things in my broadcasting life, but this seemed to be The One - _goodness me_ \- "

"But we lost," Gary says numbly. None of them had seen any of this footage. They'd all stopped reading the papers, really, after all the shit they'd been given for Ireland. They hadn't been watching telly either. Thirty million people - thirty million in a country that had written football off, that had a sports minister saying there wasn't a point in playing, newspapers telling them to pack up and go home - it's a number he can't even process.

"We're all - " a producer clears his throat. "We all thought you could do it, you know. We really did."

The footage now is kids in the dark-collared shirts, chanting _In-ger-land In-ger-land In-ger-land._ Pubs packed with people. Footage of the game that Gary hadn't seen, of his goal, the yellow card, Chris's penalty miss from an angle behind the net. Union jacks and St George crosses waving in the stands. _IN-GER-LAND IN-GER-LAND IN-GER-LAND._

Suddenly, Gary knows what he has to do. The second chance. The miracle.

"Show me all your footage," he says.

 

 

 

 

Football is a simple game. Twenty-two men chase after a ball for ninety minutes and at the end -

He wakes up. The phone rings. He eats breakfast, lunch, they drive to the Stadio delle Alpi. Kit and shorts and shoes are already laid out for them; Gary stands in front of the red number ten, bites his lip.

Bobby Robson says: Before this game starts, I want to tell you how proud I am of each and every one of you. We could all be immortal. We will live forever in English football.

Terry Butcher with a bandage over his eye stabs at the three lions on his shirt. Says: That's what all this is about.

 

 

 

 

_There is Butcher - it's only just scrambled away. And the shot back in was an absolute beauty by Gascoigne, and it forced Illgner into a flying save. What a good solid start by England this is._

_It's come to the near post - corner - that was a super move._

_And it's Augenthaler who will hit it - what a shot and a good save! Of the highest order from Peter Shilton!_

_Platt came in behind the two of them and he wasn't far off it._

_It's direct...and it's been deflected... and it's in the net...! Brehme's shot - and I think it must have hit Paul Parker - unfortunate circumstances - and with a quarter of an hour gone in the second half of the semi-final, England are a goal down!_

_Beardsley came forward instead - Steven, he's just come on - ! Oh, it's saved._

 

 

 

 

He thinks, here, of the penalties that he takes every day of every tournament, thirty forty fifty, hammered into the back of the net. No goalkeepers, no pressure, no nerves; those are merely distractions. The striker and the goalpost and nothing else. Everything he's ever hit in his life has been done with the same thing in mind - the only thing he's ever wanted to do, the only thing he's ever been interested in: score the goal.

Gary looks for the arc of the cross, falling, off Kohler. Everything is simple, clockwork, right, left, net.

 

 

 

 

_And England have equalised! It's Gary Lineker! The ace marksman keeps England in the World Cup! With just ten minutes to go, it's his thirty-fifth goal for England, and who's to say it's not the most important! Look at the joy on the face of England's goalscorer! Well - we did say it wasn't over!_

 

 

 

 

Ten minutes. Five. Two. Klinsmann goes close twice in extra time, Peter reacting instinctively to both. Gazza's mistimed tackle goes in; Gary makes a face at Bobby. David hits it over the bar. Chris hits it off the post. They play like they play every night, like they're going to win.

Second half of extra time. Gazza wins a free kick. _Ole ole ole ole_ , they're singing, _England, England_. Trevor's shot turns into a corner that Mark fails to keep in the box.

 

 

 

 

There are moments.

Moments where the world seems to stand still. Moments where thirty million people stop, hold their breath, pray. Moments that make heroes.

There's a moment five minutes from the end of extra time, where Stuart's stood over the ball near the Germans' corner for a free kick. It isn't something Gary would have realised without seeing the footage of the game. Chris will score an offside goal in the next thirty seconds, but it isn't Chris who's offside. Gazza is.

So - Gary lines up next to Gazza, watching Stuart take the run up, his fingers twitching. That's why he's here. Not to change what he knows will happen, but what he knows won't. Not to be the hero. To make one.

The whistle goes. He grabs Gazza's shirt and pulls.

 

 

 

 

_AND IT'S IN! A SUPERB HEADER FROM CHRIS WADDLE! ENGLAND ARE IN THE LEAD IN THE WORLD CUP SEMI-FINAL, AND SURELY NOW THEY'VE GOT TO WIN IT! SURELY, AS IT WAS TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AGO, IT'S ALL OVER NOW!_

 

 

 

 

It can't finish like this, Gary thinks, long after it has.

Buried under the weight of England, white shirts in a scrum pile, Stuart the one to comfort Matthäus this time, Peter racing up the length of the pitch to grab fistfuls of his shirt and scream, Gazza crying again, Chris punching the air, penalties the farthest thing from his mind.

Gary combs his hair back from his face and gets off the grass, looks up at the stands. _All English fans are kindly requested to remain in your seats for fifteen minutes,_ blares the tannoy cautiously, but that's all gone to pot. It's delirium. It's a world in motion. Terry jabs at his shirt: _THREE LIONS ON MY CHEST, I KNOW WE CAN'T GO WRONG._

They get shoved through the interviews. Gary can't even remember what he says, then they're on the bus. Stumbling into seats. Chris doesn't ask him about ice cream. Bobby stands up, says, "I'm very, very proud of you, lads," and then, with a grin so wide, "we're fucking immortal now." _Let's all have a disco_ , Gazza sings.  _LET'S ALL HAVE A DISCO._ John sits down next to Gary, grabs him by the scruff of the neck, laughs into his face.

The hotel. The pool. More singing. More dancing. More beer. The pubs at home must be going wild. Thirty million people are out there as happy as they'd ever been in their lives. Football is a simple game, he thinks, watching his half of the twenty-two men, who'd chased a ball and won.

So maybe this won't last. He leans against the pool chair and listens to John doing his rap on the table, clapped on by boys giddy with belief. So maybe it's one of those nights, so maybe he'll wake up tomorrow and all the euphoria will be shattered, as it's been before, as it always will.

But listen - even if that happens, he knows now he can give them this. Happiness over and over, hope again and again. There are moments. There is this - what was it that Pete Davies had told him, on the eve of the Brazil game at Wembley? - football was only ever ninety minutes. You get your span allotted, you do your best, in the end you're all played out. How bravely. How very bravely. And though that end may be as cruel as hell, there's no one can fault you for trying all you can until it comes.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up.

The phone is ringing.

His heart sinks. It feels like the ground's been ripped away from him, even though he knows he'd expected this. For all his pessimism, there'd been a nagging hope at the back of his mind that last night was _it._

It's another sunny day – is it ever not sunny in Italy, really – Gary reaches over to pick the phone up. Every part of him is aching and he creaks as he stretches, manoeuvring himself to the edge like an old man.

"Hello," he says, glancing over at the bed next to him.

Peter isn't there.

"Gary," says Bobby on the other end of the line, impatient. "Have you seen Gazza? He drank far too much last night and I hope he's not gone and done something stupid again - "

"No," Gary says. His fingers are so numb he almost drops the phone. "Have you seen Shilts?"

"I think he passed out in one of the fountains. Well, if you see Gazza, let me know."

"All right."

"Gary?"

"Yeah?"

"We're this close." Bobby laughs. It's a child's laugh, taking delight in the simplest of things; a snowflake, a silly face. "We're this bloody close."

Gary puts down the phone. The room is quiet. The air is still. Sunlight winks at him through a gap in the curtains, as vivid as the night before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_I backed away, against a rough grey wall; one of the last few there, though I wasn't there really, not fully - I was still back in the beautiful game, still watching the weave and weft of play, the patterns and the passes, the missed chances and the goals, the hope and the grief - still crying and cheering in the stands where the ordinary folk go to watch the men who've got gold in their shoes._

_And in the empty bus park, the small simple words of the War Correspondent came back. Because what had it been like, to follow England to the semi-finals of the World Cup?_

_It had been the best - just the best._

 

 

 

 

     

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Most of the facts are from [All Played Out](https://www.amazon.com/All-Played-Out-Story-Italia/dp/0224059548) by Pete Davies, which covers Italia '90 and is one of the best football books I've read! [Here's](https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/news/a6486/pete-davies-all-played-out-football-book/) a great article about his writing the book. The quote close to the end, and the quote at the end, are from it  
> \- [Full match](https://www.footbie.com/video/england-vs-germany-full-match-1990-world-cup-semifinal), [Highlights](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5l0ba0)  
> \- [Gazza's Tears](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0ltHY8-gfs), an ITV documentary; also watch [Return to Turin](http://www.fullmatchesandshows.com/2018/05/30/return-to-turin-italia-90/) and One Night in Turin  
> \- [Lineups](http://www.planetworldcup.com/CUPS/1990/sf_ger_v_eng.html)  
> \- [Match report](https://www.theblizzard.co.uk/article/england-1-west-germany-1) and [minute by minute](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2014/mar/27/retro-mbm-england-v-west-germany-sort-of-live)  
> \- Articles about Italia '90 / England: [X](https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/international/italia-90-when-england-were-out-of-this-world-1986934.html) [X](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/england/11502552/England-in-Turin-Gazzas-tears-penalty-agony-against-West-Germany-but-day-we-fell-in-love-with-game-again.html) [X](https://asia.eurosport.com/football/world-cup/2018/paul-parker-lessons-from-italia-90-for-gareth-southgates-side_sto6804751/story.shtml) [X](https://www.independent.co.uk/news/education/education-news/football-england-at-the-world-cup-1990-italy-englands-gritty-struggle-ends-in-tears-1163203.html) [X](https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/news-and-comment/why-is-it-always-like-fawlty-towers-when-england-check-in-6259503.html) [X](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-3016335/Chris-Waddle-s-miss-Gazza-s-tears-agonising-night-Turin-25-years-ago-days-England-mattered.html) [X](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/article/gazza-italia-90-merrie-england-george-chesterton&sa=D&ust=1529762592689000&usg=AFQjCNEhkP7l-4z_SbTOsVgaTa9Khwt1mg)  
> \- Bobby Robson's pool party and other details were from Gazza's autobiography  
> \- Articles about Gary Lineker: [X](https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/news-and-comment/gary-lineker-exclusive-interview-world-cup-2018-england-squad-fifa-messi-jonathan-liew-a8388181.html) [X](https://www.fifa.com/fifa-tournaments/players-coaches/do-you-remember/people=174708/index.html) [X](https://www.shortlist.com/entertainment/sport/gary-lineker-interview/73673/amp) [X (Shilts was his roommate and coincidentally idol)](https://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/football/news/gary-lineker-shoulders-blame-englands-5173741.amp) [X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMs6vCv8MmQ) [X](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2011/mar/13/gary-lineker-interview) [X](https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/may/30/world-cup-2014-gary-lineker-interview) [X](https://www.shortlist.com/entertainment/world-cup/gary-lineker-football-art-messi-maradona-world-cup/360774) [X](https://www.radiotimes.com/news/tv/2018-06-13/gary-lineker-world-cup-2018-regrets-england-politics-twitter-russia/)  
> \- Roger Milla is the oldest goalscorer in world cup history  
> \- I picked Gary because he's - well - the smartest of the lot, but also because he was basically the reason England got anywhere - the hat trick against Poland, the games against Cameroon - and on the way I fell in love with him even worse than I've already fallen for his twitter account SO this was a Mistake is what I'm trying to say  
> \- The someone clever is Eric Hobsbawm, who wrote bangers on nationalism and identity  
> \- [Nessun Dorma](https://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2015/09/throwback-thursday-nessun-dorma-and-italia-90.html) was the official soundtrack of the BBC coverage and became iconic in its own right  
> \- The offside goal was actually scored by Platt, but I JUST WANTED A HAPPY REDEMPTION ENDING OKAY.  
> \- Title from Billy Joel's Keeping the Faith - under the circumstances, relevant.
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
